


Past Glories

by Daegaer



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Gen, Loss of Powers, Male Friendship, Nostalgia, Psychic Abilities, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8079382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Written for the prompt: Reunion, loss of one of one's major senses, (author's choice, possible h/c)

  AU. As they reach 30, psi's talents burn out, leaving them as average humans. At 31 and with the last hints of telepathy in his mind, Schuldig pays Crawford a visit in America.





	

It was a perfectly ordinary apartment building. Not flashy, not – anything. Schuldig politely helped an old lady who struggled with her key and too many shopping bags, holding the door wide for her and slipping in after, like he belonged. Up the stairs and down to the door on the end; he stood there, waiting for the door to open and Crawford to have the entire day planned out. Then he shook his head at his own stupidity and rang the bell.

When the door opened, Crawford had his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands still damp with dishwater. He looked at Schuldig for a long, long moment with what looked like a real expression of surprise on his face. Schuldig felt his heart sink a little more.

“Hey, Crawford,” he said. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You just happened to be in my part of Chicago,” Crawford said, not sounding too friendly, but at least he didn’t have a gun in his hand.

“Yeah. Well, more like I was in America. Mexico City. So I thought I’d drop by. Gonna invite me in and give me a beer?”

Crawford stood back, not saying a word as Schuldig strolled past. The furniture was good enough quality, but not too expensive. Someone very ordinary lived here, he thought.

_What the hell does he want?_

“I just wanted to see an old friend,” Schuldig said nonchalantly, trying not to let any of the thrill of the sudden murmur in his mind show on his face. “How have you been keeping?”

“Fine. I’ll get you that beer.” 

Schuldig followed him to the fridge, leaned up against it with the bottle in his hand.

“So, how are you really?” he said, and drank. Maybe it was poisoned. It just tasted like American beer; he was vaguely disappointed in Crawford’s lack of attempted murder.

Crawford shrugged. “Fine. I work in a security firm – managerial position. It’s just till I come up with something more interesting.”

“Yeah,” Schuldig said. “How come you’re not living in some supervillain’s penthouse or something?”

“I do have money put away, of course,” Crawford said, sounding more like himself. _Plan for the future, Schuldig. You won’t always be able to depend on me letting you know what you’ll need money for, Schuldig._ Schuldig blinked away the memory and nodded encouragingly. “It’s just sensible not to attract too much attention by spending extravagantly.”

“Except on the dye-job,” Schuldig said, and grinned at Crawford’s irritation. “It’s very natural, don’t worry.”

“So why were you in Mexico?” Crawford said, running a hand through his too-dark hair.

“I had a job.”

“A job?”

“Yeah. Remember them? A . . . _job._ Work while you’re able to, that’s what I say.” He smiled through the memory of his terror when all the voices had just gone quiet, right in the middle of an ambush. How the hell did normal people stand it, even if they didn’t have to worry about locating people trying to kill them? “Do you still work? _Real_ work.”

“Once or twice,” Crawford said. “It felt – I don’t know, like writing with your off hand or something. The pay was lousy too.”

“Why? What was it?”

“Just some woman with a cheating husband,” Crawford said, sounding embarrassed. “I only charged her two grand.” He shrugged. “Charity work, really.”

“Tell me you at least fucked her too.”

Crawford looked at him sidelong. “For that price? You’d better believe she had to provide sweeteners.”

Something brushed cobweb-light across Schuldig’s mind. “Her younger, hotter sister! Did she know she’d been pimped out?”

Crawford was looking at him oddly. “You’re thirty-one,” he said.

“In two days time. I’m still a firm, pert thirty.”

“You still have your telepathy – how much?”

Schuldig let the armour of his smile slip a little. “Fuck all, really. It started going last year, slow enough at first I could pretend it wasn’t happening. Now I’m lucky to get anything at all. It’s so _quiet_ , Crawford. What happens when it’s all gone and I have nothing but my own thoughts? I’m worried it’ll turn out I haven’t anything in my mind worth thinking.”

“Still melodramatic,” Crawford said and laughed, taking them both, it seemed, by surprise. “Did you really come all this way to whine at me?”

“Maybe,” Schuldig muttered. “Did it hurt? When everything finally went?”

“No,” Crawford said. “I had some killer migraines, but who’s to say if they were connected? All the literature says the psychic abilities just go.”

“All the literature is written by Eszett, and they’re lying bastards,” Schuldig said acerbically. “Shit, I’ve always had headaches – how’ll I know which one is screwing me up?” He thought of Crawford and himself nine years before in Tokyo; he’d been having a good time, as immortal in his own mind as twenty-two year olds always are, mocking Crawford for his drivenness, his hard work. Crawford had been twenty-seven, had seen the wall rushing towards him fast. Schuldig sighed; he got it now.

“Sorry I said you were really boring,” he said.

“What? When?”

“Back then,” he said vaguely. “In Japan. Let me make it up to you?”

“How, precisely?”

He couldn’t blame Crawford for the suspicion. Suspicion was _good_. No naïve trusting of old pals for Brad Crawford.

“A job. The kind of job the client doesn’t want any old hired gun doing. He wants something _better_ , something more prestigious. He wants _Schwarz_.” Crawford was already shaking his head, already getting set to throw him out and he didn’t need to be a telepath to see that. Schuldig put on his best smile and flung what was left of his telepathy at him.

“Normals don’t know psychics have a Best Before date. All the client knows is he wants the best, he wants a name that makes his enemies shit themselves. C’mon, Crawford, Schwarz, you and me against the world, trading on our wits to make them think we can kill them with our brains. Proper pay, no sad divorcees, we’re back as the bogeymen.”

Crawford looked a little tempted, even as he shook his head. “You’re insane. The first time someone asks you to read a mind and you can’t we’d be dead.”

“But I have a card up my sleeve,” Schuldig said, ostentatiously turning back his cuffs. He leaned forward to murmur, “Nagi’s in the same city as the target. I’m sure he could spare us an hour or two of his time – he is _such_ a reputation booster, don’t you agree?”

“You had terrible ideas in Schwarz, you have terrible ideas now,” Crawford grumbled. “I should forget I ever knew you.” _God, I miss_ \- Schuldig heard, the light sense drifting away again.

“Fuck it,” Crawford muttered. “Want another beer? It doesn’t do any harm to talk.”

Schuldig’s smile was as wide and evil as it had ever been when they were young.


End file.
